Cold Within

Author:darksylvia
Pairing: Brian/Justin
Fandom: Queer as Folk, US
Notes: Set end-of-season-3. Thank you lesser_gods for the beta. Anything off since then is my fault. I tweaked. Compulsively. For juneprota.

These few days after the election, Brian has been oddly calm—mild, even. Maybe it just hasn't hit him yet, I decide. A delayed reaction. He ignores me when he comes in, though I give him a friendly little wave, and he heads straight for the bar. I shrug and turned back to this evening's true love.

Even if Brian and I have an actual sort of friendship going ever since...Teddy...he's not a demonstrative person, and he has more moods than Mississippi weather. So I leave him alone. I've got my cosmo and my man and there are two things I'm not doing tonight: Going home alone, and thinking about Teddy.

Oops. I'll just have to try a little harder on that last one.

"Over here, sweetie," I remind my catch. He's got a fantastic tongue and he's drunker than I am. We make out. Ted who?

But, a little further in the evening, when I may have had one too many delicious beverages of the alcoholic variety, I see that Brian is still there, which is weird because he should have found a trick and disappeared into some seedy back alley by now. He's about ninety sheets to the wind, not that I'm fabulously better. It's always hard to tell how drunk Brian is, but after three years and countless rides home, usually with Michael at the wheel of Brian's jeep, I've learned some of the signs. He doesn't sway, hardly slurs, and he sits perfectly still, though his mouth looks a little loose. Of course, that just makes him more attractive. He has the air of someone concentrating. Maybe on staying upright.

A dark guy in a truly hideous green shirt (and I surely know campy from hideous) approaches him and Brian gives him a perfunctory once-over and then a shake of his head. He turns back to catch the bartender's eye. I see him lift an elegant, languorous finger for his next drink, and I know I have to intervene.

I snag my cell phone and push Mr. Tongue off of me, but I soften it with a little pat and a, "Hold on. I have to make a teensie phone call, and then we can go." The names in my call list blur a little, but I find the one I want and press 'dial.'

"Hello?" Justin's voice is raspy. He must have been asleep.

"Justin!" I say, happy he picked up. "I'm just calling to let you know that the hero sometimes known as your boyfriend is here at Woody's, keeping the bar in business."

"So what's new?" he asks, humor threading through the grogginess.

"By my calculations, he's about one sip of whiskey away from alcohol poisoning."

"Fuck," Justin says. He pauses and then continues, "I'll be there in a minute. Don't let him leave."

"Easier said than done," I sigh. "I'll try, honey."

"Thanks," and he hangs up.

Mr. Tongue wants to get back to using his namesake, but I decide, maybe, being sort of friends now, that I'd better intercept Brian's glass. He doesn't really want it. Friends don't let friends blah, blah, blah. I grab Mr. Tongue—don't want him to wander off while I'm doing my friendly duty—and sway us both over to the bar.

"Brian!" I greet him. He gives me a 'fuck off and die' look, but says nothing in favor of raising his glass to his mouth. I learned not to take it personally years ago. Once I accepted that he was an asshole, we got along just fine.

"Uh, sweetie, don't you think you've had enough?" I make a move to—I don't know, take his glass away? Lower his wrist by force?—but it doesn't matter anyway, he knocks my hand back, hard, and glares. Then he sets his drink down—mission temporarily accomplished—and turns slightly to face me.

"Was there something you wanted, Honeycutt?" he asks slowly, enunciating, equal parts exasperation and condescension.

"I was trying to prevent you from passing out in public, because that is so not something you want to live down, and do you know how dirty this floor is?" Brian gives me a low laugh, which I take as a positive sign.

"I haven't passed out since I was fifteen, the night before I got my first fake ID. Sneaking into the liquor cabinet isn't a good idea when your old man is a mean drunk." He laughs again, a whiskey laugh, with no real humor. He glances disinterestedly at the floor. "I've slept in worse places."

"Brian—" I start, and stop. I don't even know how to respond to my own stories of childhood woe, let alone Brian's, and he's pricklier than a porcupine about people's sympathy. I want to lay a hand on his shoulder, or give him a hug, but that's probably the very reason he doesn't tell any body anything.

Meanwhile, Mr. Tongue is starting to get impatient. He moves his hips against my ass and his tongue snakes out against my neck. I let my eyes drift half shut, until I see Brian smile with false cheerfulness and toast me with his drink.

"Wait—" I say, torn between hottie and duty. I start to reach out to block him, but another hand comes between us, neatly plucking the the glass from Brian's fingers, and we all follow it back to its owner's mouth. Justin throws it all back with barely a grimace.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" asks Brian. "I thought you had a project." But he's smiling. "And isn't that my leather jacket?" Justin shrugs, throws me a smile, and slides onto the bar stool next to Brian.

"I look hot in it," he says by way of explanation. "Hi, Emmett." He downs the very last shot lined up in front of Brian, and then I watch him meet the bartender's eyes in some subtle communication before the bartender retreats out of range.

It doesn't matter—Brian only has eyes for Justin now. He watches Justin, not with the annoyed barely-tolerance that he gave me and the rest of the world a few minutes ago, but with a rapt fascination. It's probably more pronounced because he's drunk, but it's always there, and it's been there from the first. Almost like he can't believe Justin is real. As if to prove my point, he reaches a hand out and pets Justin's shaggy hair. Justin gently catches his hand and uses it to draw himself in, so they are chest to chest. They are such sweeties when I'm least expecting it. He puts his other hand behind Brian's head and leans in: his soft, wicked mouth to a receptive ear.

I can't hear what's being said, and a girl knows when not to eavesdrop, but Brian certainly seems amenable to whatever it was. I see both of his hands creep underneath the leather jacket, and Justin's cocky smile and up-tilted chin spell victory. Then whatever Brian is doing causes that smile to melt down into a soft 'o' of lust. Justin focuses on me and we share another tiny smile.

It occurrs to me in that one lightning-quick second that even though Michael came up with the name up out of spite, Justin really is a boy wonder. And Brian knows it. Our eyes break away as Brian tugs Justin in by the lapels, moves his tongue out sinuously to part Justin's lips. Then Brian moves in, slick as a snake, interlocking their mouths, catches Justin just right so that they fit together like one living thing. He kisses him dirty and reverant at the same time, tongues and lips and a perfect, leashed amount of pressure. Justin is oblivious, completely gone under, and I don't blame him one bit. Brian's extreme concentration has been transferred from his alcohol onto Justin.

"All righty," I say. "Time to go!" I take Mr. Tongue's wandering hand and wave goodbye with the other, not that either of them are in a state to notice. "Ta!" I'm cheerful now that I've done right and I'm going to get laid. We leave them making out, framed by empty, whiskey-streaked glasses.

I happen to glance over my shoulder one last time when we're a few doors down, just in time to see Brian lope down the stairs of Woody's, maybe a little more fluid than usual, and Justin—hot, shiny, confident Justin is on his heels. Me and Mr. Tongue go one way—and I hope to God it's the direction of my apartment—and Brian and Justin go the other way. Brian's arm around Justin's shoulder, they move off, two sleek black figures framed by old buildings, cracked streetlights, and dirty snow.